The Colour of Your Voice

by Daniel Newwyn

  “Tell me.”

  “Please. Be alive until then. Be alive to see it.”

  “Promise,” he immediately replied. “Bring it here.”

  “Please wait for me. I won't take long, won't take long.”

  She placed her hands on the glass. Her fingers were slim, slender, delicately so. He also put his hand on it, matching his fingers with hers. His were bigger, though not so rough, but it was enough for Violet's hand to place neatly into it. Their eyes locked together for a good minute, not leaving each other for even a second.

  They wished the glass wasn't there. May they touch each other, feel each other's breath, brush on each other's lips. They wished that every bad thing had never happened.

  The surface of the glass was ice cold. Somehow, they still felt each other’s warmth

  November 20th.2013

  I t was the first time Violet met her mother after two years. She was scrawny, eyes went limp. Seeing her, she sprang up from the stool, her eyes filled with tears.

  “V-Violet! Is it... is it really you? W-why did you leave? Did you know how hard it was for me, trying to find you…” her mother hugged her in her lap, her tears drenched all over Violet's shirt. Violet did not know if she should push her out or not. For twenty years of her life, she never saw her hugging her and crying like that ever.

  Her spirit was no longer lucid after so many years to stretch her head with fear of repayment. Their neighbours told Violet about the time her mother ran out to the streets, eyes drenched in her own tears, calling her daughters' name until her voice could no longer escape her throat. Violet wanted to believe it. That her mother did not want to treat her badly. It was just financial pressure... She was just having bad days for eighteen year, that was all...

  There are those who choose to fall into debt. There are people who choose to beat up, to humiliate their children. All were choices. Being in debt was not an excuse.

  She chose to push her mother out. From her pocket, she pulled out a bundle of money.

  “Take that and pay back your debt.”

  Much of it was what she has accumulated all her years of dirty work. Who knew what her mother would spend it on? Would she pay a portion of her debt? Or would she try to throw them into gambling, into alcohol?

  She hastily unfolded the bills. The money wasn't a small sum. Her eyes were full of tears, her mouth curved into a delightful beam.

  “Thank you, thank you... Hey, Violet! Where are you going? Come here, have dinner with your mother! What kind of food do you like? I'll go buy the ingredients!”

  As she turned away, Violet realised one thing. For twenty years, her mother did not even know what her favourite food was.

  For the first time, Violet sat in front of the canvas after two years. If she could see her mother again, she could hold the pen, she thought.

  But she was wrong.

  She tried everything. She poured cold water into her face. She took deep breaths. She bit the paper, soaked herself in hot water. Useless. Her hands were still as if they weren't hers.

  I can’t.

  What was she thinking? If she couldn't do it, then why did she promise him? Why did she have to make those absurd claims?”

  Can't. Can't. Can't. The words resounded in her mind.

  Maybe she needed more time. That was right. She wanted her picture to look perfect. The best there was. The most beautiful in life. Such paintings take weeks, months, even years. She did not have a year, but she had a week, a month to complete it.

  Her phone suddenly vibrated. When she picked up the phone, she recognized that the voice on the other end of the line was the one she had talked with several times.

  “I should not have been allowed to inform you. But I think you should know... tomorrow afternoon…”

  November 21th.2013

  T urner still vividly remembered that day — the day that his Big Boss led him to a shed, the inside stuffed with rows of sacks stacked as high as the mountains. When the boss pulled out a bag, he knew what he was facing.

  Cocaine.

  “Eighty pounds. We will put it inside the watermelon gut. Don't worry, I've placed people on the inside, we’ll be able to carry it across the border. Before you know it, it'll be over. My man, my dude, my comrade! I entrust you on this deal. Get this done, I will pay you handsomely. You will roll on the money! You can have as many women, as many properties, as many cars as you wish... All. Yours! What do you think, comrade?”

  He knew that sooner or later, that day would come. And he had to accept it. He remembered Sean, the ‘brother’ who he had beaten to a vegetative state for ‘theft’. Having been brothers for ten years, he knew. Sean may be a bit of a sex freak, a bit of a knobhead. But he was never a petty thief.

  The gang nurtured him. The gang sheltered him. He owed the gang his life.

  Being a part of the gang, he must not refuse.

  He, along with the other four brothers, pretended to be the fruit traders, littering a truck. Big Boss reassured him that these cars have all passed before, no matter what happened. So, when the car was stopped by police officers, his associates were frightened.

  He recalled the last sentence he said to the guy sitting next to him in the car before he was shot dead.

  “Do not draw the gun... Do not draw the gun…”

  Four dead. Two smugglers and two policemen. It did not take long for his name to be heard all over the media. He could only imagine the reaction of the majority of the public, some he had overheard while they were throwing eggs at him on the way to the crime truck.

  “Animals!”

  “Those beasts! How many people have been robbed of their lives? How many families have been torn apart by drugs? And they even killed police officers?”

  He did not kill anyone. He raised his hand to surrender, obediently complied when the officers put his head on the ground and bent his hands behind him. He did not mean to harm anyone. He did not intend to engage in drug trafficking. He was only doing the task.

  But deep inside, Turner knew. He was able to refuse. Was he afraid of death? Or did he lust for money?

  We live like dogs so we can spend like beasts, they say.

  That night was the first time he thought about his victims. Was all that he had done worth it? How many mothers had lost their children, brothers lost their siblings, husbands lost their wives... because of the drug? Was it worth the families mourning and the policemen in tombs?

  Sitting in a corner of the prison, he clicked his tongue. He had no choice. Had anyone ever opened a door to him, and told him: ‘Come here and work as a clean man, then your gang will magically spare your life’? Where were those policemen in green shirts and long batons when the bully assaulted him for ten years as a child? Where were they when the gangs held their swords and chased him down while he was performing the duty of a rent collector?

  Who made him this way?

  We all die someday. I’m not afraid, he kept telling himself. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid.

  It was too late. Turner was longing for something, and he hated that feeling. He wished he didn’t feel, didn’t grieve, didn’t torment. He wished he was a man with honey-coated skin, glinting eyes and a hollow heart, crushing dreams and tearing them apart, watching the world crash and setting it all alight. It should have been him against the world. Ten years ago, he dreamt of going to the City, where he was told that his biological parents had left him for, vowing to themselves that they’d come back for him after they’d made it big. Five years ago, he dreamt of landing his job in one of those sparkling city nightclubs, where the pretty female patrons would sneak tips that worth his whole month’s pay into his back pocket, and they would dance the night away, immersed in self-delusion and sensual foolishness. All games and no strings attached.

  If he were to do it all again, maybe he’d still choose a life like that. He wouldn’t look cool acting all smug like those snobby kids on TV shows, but at least he wouldn’t feel hurt. Caring means an aching heart,
and loving means a writhing soul.

  He was never strong enough to fight for his own freedom. And sure as hell, he was never strong enough to keep himself from falling in love.

  The sound of the officer opening the cells was stone cold. He stood ten feet away from him, his voice onerous. “Turner Nguyen…”

  “She came again?” He looked up at him.

  “What do you want to eat? We will do you a last favour.”

  “Oh…”

  Turner froze for a second. It was just what he wanted to hear all along, but was it? The moment it actually came, he tried everything possible to reject the truth.

  When the old jailer escorted Turner, he asked, “Turner. Have you ever regretted what you did?”

  The jailer did not expect him to really answer, because he never talked. Unexpectedly, he replied, “No. I feel guilty about my crimes. But I don't regret it. You do the deed, you pay the price.”

  That day, time stopped. Everything in front of him was like a slow-motion film — the leaves were fluttering, the door swung open, the bird's wings flying through the tiny ventilation holes above. He wanted to hold back time, just a little more.

  “Give me... the biggest meal you got,” he said to the jailer.

  Turner took an incredible amount of time to chew through his food; he was like a five-year-old playing with a dish of broccoli he didn't want to eat. That didn't buy much time.

  Couldn't wait any longer, the prison guard opened the door again.

  “Turner. It's time.”

  Two police officers picked him up, handcuffed him, and prepared to take him away. It was the longest walk of his life. His mind was still wandering in places. He was still waiting for something. He was still waiting for someone.

  A miracle.

  She will not come.

  “Please. Be alive until then. Be alive to see it.”

  Her words echoed inside his head; he could hear them so clearly even amidst the cacophony of rustling metal noises and hurrying footsteps. He fell to his knees, whispering to himself.

  “Sorry, I can't.”

  He accepted. Do the deed, pay the price. Death was inevitable.

  The officers dragged him away. The colours were dwindling. The sounds were muffled. He wasn't a dead man, but he damn well felt like one.

  “Let me in! Please, please, please, please! Let me in!”

  A voice rang out from far away. He turned back to the direction of it. He could not see who it belonged to, but he knew full well who that person was.

  “Violet?”

  The conversation continued on the other side of the wall.

  “You cannot, you cannot go in! This place has rules, you can't just…”

  “I have to meet him... I've got to meet him…”

  Turner looked at the old jailer. His eyes were like a dog pleading for help. The jailer never saw that glimpse of those mournful eyes from him before: weak, begging. Hopeless. He breathed a long, long breath.

  “Wait a minute.”

  He took much longer than a minute. After what seemed to be an eternity, he reappeared in Turner's eyes, clutching a girl's arm. Violet. Turner was glued to her. Why did she look so skinny? Why was her hair so shaggy? Why were there dark circles around her eyes?

  Most importantly, what was she holding in front of her chest, covered with a white cloth?

  Violet looked at him, her hands trembling. She ripped the cover off, revealing what she had always wanted him to see.

  A little painting, located on her chest. In the painting was a woman standing next to a man. Her body was thin and pale, her legs and arms skinny. His body was stiff, tanned, his shoulders tight. They looked at each other affectionately, their hands holding each other. Their remaining hands, placed on the shoulders of a little girl looking up at them, grinning, eyes full of happiness.

  Around the man were pink bubbles. In the corner of the painting, there were two tiny words etched on it: ‘Future’. It was unclear whether Turner had seen it or not.

  Violet never cried in her life. But that day, she burst into tears. She cried as if her body contained only tears. She knelt on the ground, weeping like a child. Her hands clenched into the painting, not letting it loose. Tears rolled in her mouth, tears rolled on the cheek. Tears flowed through her portrait, through the painting, from top to bottom.

  She wanted to say many things. She wanted to tell him — it probably wasn’t nice, that she did not have enough time, that she wanted to give him something more perfect. “I LOVE YOU... I LOVE YOU!” she wanted to scream. But the words stuck in the throat. She bit both her lips, they swelled.

  Turner was raging. His face burned. He gasped, trying to escape from the police officers holding him.

  “Let me... Let me go! Please, please! Give me one more day! One more hour! Please, let me go!”

  The police rushed in, squeezed him to the floor and pulled him away. Six police officers were needed to pin him down. But his mouth never stopped screaming, screaming from the bottom of his lungs.

  “Let me go, you heartless fools! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! Please, just one more hour…”

  Fuck his biological parents. Fuck the City. Right then, right there, there was only one thing on his mind.

  A future with her.

  Turner did everything he could. He tried jerking the officers away from him. He scratched his nails onto the ground, to the point one of them popped out, blood from the tip of his finger dripped into droplets. He even bit one of the officers, his eyes bloodshot like a wild animal.

  People only regret when it's too late.

  If only he left the gangster life when he still could.

  If only he valued his life better.

  If only he knew the feelings that she harboured for him earlier.

  If only... if only... if only...

  Violet knelt down to the ground like a dog as the sounds of Turner grew quieter and quieter. She clenched the painting in her hand, her hiccups mixed in tears, bitter. The ground beneath her drenched into a puddle.

  The sky changed colour. The colour of the earth was as dark as his voice.

  That was the last time they met.

  April 20th.2017

  “I can see the colour of the sounds. The sparrows chirping behind her garden sounded brown. The water flowing from the tap was peach orange. My pencil sketching on the paper was almond. I don't know if those colours are real or not, or if they're all in my head, but they've been there since I was born.”

  Violet Pham stood in front of a group of people gathered in the exhibition for the first time. Her hair was neat and her clothes were elegant. Everyone in the group looked up at her with curious and attentive expressions on their face.

  “For a moment, I thought I was a failure. That everything in my life was useless, that I was the problem. But there was somebody who taught me that... I'm not trivial. That I cannot live a normal life. That's why I'm here today. I have no way to thank him, nor is there any way to let him know…”

  She was well-prepared for her speech, and up to that point, her voice was coherent and composed. But for some reason, her eyes wandered, then her voice faded away.

  “His voice is bright pink... always, always... pink…”

  She corrected her voice, wiped a few drops of tears on the corners of her eyes. She still could not cry for any other reason, but every time she thought about him, she felt sentimental.

  “That's why this painting is here. It's not perfect, but it's for him.”

  It was the worst painting in all of her collection. Frankly, it did not have a place there: the texture was not harmonious, the background was not embossed, and the pen strokes were uneven. Not to mention how out of place it was. All of her other paintings were abstract, with brushes of watercolour so minimalist they were reduced to lines and planes. It was so hard for her to draw a normal painting, with normal people and normal landscape, when everything she saw were strokes of colour. She wanted to speak a language Turner an
d she could both understand. The language of normalcy.

  Everyone understood that it was just there for personal reasons. Because it was the only picture not to be sold.

  Violet's first exhibition was a success. The money she earned was enough to keep her going in the near future, especially from the sponsorship agreements she earned. But the most important thing was recognition. She was born to be an artist. Everyone acknowledged that. Even her mother, who died in the hospital just three months ago.

  Maybe someday, someone will expose that she was a whore. Maybe someday, someone will accuse her of having a relationship with a smuggler. By then, she would have to deal with the consequences of her past choices. Do a deed, pay the price.

  But Violet did not regret it. It was all part of her life. If she hadn't become a slut... if she had not met him... maybe, Violet's life now would have been different. Very different.

  Arriving home, Violet again buried her head in the paintings. She tried to make herself busier. She had friends, but she didn't always see them. She lived alone, she had no lover. The only passion Violet had was painting. They took her mind off of things in life.

  When the clock was near to the new day, she was finally free enough to check the messages in her phone. One of them was from Mr Bach. He was the deputy CEO of a corporation, a man not only of wealth, but also of gentleness, politeness, and of course, was quite easy on the eyes. Bach had a warm, deep voice, the colour it radiated was chalky. He had been pursuing her for half a year now, seemingly determined.

  “My coffee appointment, have you thought about it?”

  Go to the exhibition. Grab a coffee. Hang out at the cinema. Every time, Bach had a reason. And every time, Violet gave him the same answer.

  “I'll have to respectfully decline.”

  The clock ticked at midnight. Violet pulled out a small book on the corner of the shelf, opened it and took out the pencil. She had had that notebook for a few years, and no matter how hard she tried to keep it undamaged, she could not help but notice some wrinkles on the corner. One time, she nearly spilled coffee on it, and she blamed herself all day.